Sara de Melo nee Taylor

Sara Taylor looked out the kitchen window and saw that the rain had stopped. Now the sun was shining. It wouldn’t shine long, however, for it was already five-fifteen p.m. and by six the sun was always down in that part of Brazil. She finished the dishes and walked out onto the front porch of the farmhouse.

They lived in a very beautiful part of the country. No one could deny that. Its tropical trees, shrubs, leaves and grasses were the greenest anyone had ever seen. Visitors unfailingly commented as much. Sara liked to sit on the porch and watch the sun setting in the west. The house had been built on a knoll, which made looking down in every direction all the more pleasant.

She wondered what her life would be like now if her parents were still alive. They had immigrated to this country from England, worked hard, raised three children then abandoned them by dying. She knew their deaths had been partly responsible for her and her sisters marrying so young.

She heard heavy footsteps behind her. It was her husband. He was a tall, rugged man with wide shoulders. He walked out onto the porch. When Sara didn’t move, he put his arms around her. She let him kiss her thin neck.

“You’re my white angel, soft and beautiful, and I sure as hell love you,” he said in Portuguese, his only language.

“I know,” Sara said. “I know I am.”